Kindred
by Wheel of Fish
Summary: A Yuletide alternative to Gaston Leroux's epilogue. Written for the 2018 PotO Advent Calendar on Tumblr.


Christine squinted at the nativity scene with a critical eye. Dozens and dozens of delicate terracotta figures, painted townspeople and animals alike, crowded the manger and surrounding village.

Raoul had salvaged the collection from his childhood home and arranged it as best he could based on memory, bless his heart, but there had been oversights. The rightmost wise man, for example, was practically leering at the Virgin Mary. The barn animals circling baby Jesus favored one side too heavily, and an overzealous sheep presided over the head of the cradle.

It was with some difficulty that Christine leaned forward to reposition the figures. She had reached a point where even the generous front draping of her maternity gown could not hide the swell of her midsection, and its unyielding roundness impeded her at every turn.

Raoul entered the parlor in his finest waistcoat. The silk was a deep, dapper gray, and his golden hair shone bright by contrast. "You are fussing again," he chided. "You ought to lie down, Christine, while you can. We both know you will overextend yourself once our company arrives."

She sighed and straightened, one hand at her back for support. "I know. But he has never celebrated Christmas, and I want it to be special."

He stood behind her, hands gently kneading her shoulders, and kissed the crown of her head. "How could it be anything but?"

She had done her best to meld his holiday traditions with hers this Christmas Eve (though they would skip the midnight mass, just this once, on account of her increasing fatigue). A Yule log burned in the drawing-room hearth, and the centerpiece for their meal would be the _ljuskrona_ she had fashioned by wrapping an old candelabra in festive cut paper.

The house was draped in evergreens, their fragrance fresh and sharp. Tapered ivory candles lit every walkway and surface. And under the Christmas tree in the parlor was a stack of paper-wrapped parcels she had meticulously counted, her fingers trailing over each of their red silk ribbons.

She knew it was not the decorations, however, of which Raoul spoke.

Christine leaned back against his chest to peer up at him. "Have we made the right decision?"

The line of his mouth drew tighter, and he inhaled audibly. "We did agree to move forward, after..." He declined to name what did not need naming: those events, last year, that had transpired beneath the Opera. "This would certainly be a step forward."

A quick rap at the door made them jump. Christine traded glances with her husband, a flutter of nervousness in her breast, and the pair of them went to answer.

They were met by the sharp jade eyes of the Persian, who had closed his umbrella so that his gray astrakhan cap now collected the cold December rain. As greetings were exchanged, he removed the cap and held it to his breast. "My unending gratitude," he said, "for your kind invitation."

"Oh, of course, monsieur!" said Christine. "The pleasure is all ours, I assure you. Do come in out of the rain." She peered around the Persian's shoulder. "Is he...here?"

"Ah. Yes." The daroga stepped across the threshold to reveal the shadowy figure behind him. "Skulking, as it were."

She blinked out into the rain. The man there was rail-thin, hunched and nearly swimming in his dark traveling cloak. He was dressed the same as when she had seen him last—black top hat, black tailcoat, black mask and gloves—but he carried a cane now. Time had been a cruel mistress these past few months.

Better a cane, however, than a coffin.

She could not help but smile. "Merry Christmas, Erik. Won't you please come in?"

With the door closed behind them, the three men stood in a stiff, hesitant semicircle before her. She cast Raoul an imploring glance, and he was quick to step forward and shake Erik's hand. "Monsieur," he said.

Erik nodded. "Monsieur le vicomte."

"Monsieur le comte now, I believe," said the Persian.

Raoul waved his words away. "Please, call me Raoul. Or de Chagny, if you prefer."

The entryway lapsed into silence. Erik turned to Christine as though he might say something, and she met him with wide, hopeful eyes, but he adjusted his grip on the cane and looked away.

"Daroga," said Raoul, with what was clearly forced confidence, "Why don't I show you to your room? I imagine you want to dry and change for supper."

And then it was just the two of them.

"I confess," said Erik gruffly, "even after your persuasive letters, I expected to regret this visit."

"And do you?"

He hesitated. "I feel as though I am a great imposition, but I am glad to witness your happiness firsthand."

Her reply stuck in her throat, and she surged forward to hug him as best her stomach would allow. He stiffened before melting into the embrace.

"How I have missed you, my friend," she whispered, her head against his shoulder. The wool of his tailcoat was damp, and she pulled away with renewed purpose. "Please, let me take your cloak and hang it by the fire, and then you must change." He obliged, and with the cloak draped over one arm, she tilted her head to add, "Might I take your mask as well?"

She could not see the expression beneath said mask, but his stunned stillness spoke for itself. "Christine," he said, "are you mad?"

"We are all quite familiar with each other now, I should think. Besides, one can hardly enjoy a Christmas feast with such impediments." She held out a hand. "Go on, then."

His gaze flitted from her hand to her face and back down again. It was with almost painful slowness that he removed the mask, his fingers twitching as he placed it in her palm. It was only then that she realized her hand had been shaking.

Raoul descended the staircase and froze, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he surveyed the scene. "I—ah—might I show you to your room, then?" he asked Erik, and Christine flashed him a grateful smile.

She followed the smell of roast goose and chestnut stuffing into the dining room, where, per her instructions, the cook had laid out their feast on the sideboard before retiring for the night. The rest of the staff had been dismissed hours earlier. The gentlemen were quick to join her, and they all tucked in to the food, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine.

Erik, however, remained tense throughout. He refused wine, his hand shook as he spread his foie gras, and he seemed genuinely surprised when his needs were addressed: whether he would care for parsnips, or how he liked the fig confit, or how he took his coffee. His words echoed in Christine's head: _I feel as though I am a great imposition._

Did he think they had invited him out of sympathy?

Supper was an hours-long affair, after which the daroga pushed back his plate and declared he would not eat again for days.

Raoul gave him a sly grin. "Let us hope that is not the case, my friend, for the Swedes have _their_ feast tomorrow, on Christmas Day."

Bellies full, they retired to the drawing-room for drinks and merriment. Erik was persuaded to imbibe a bit of sherry that seemed to ease his restless fidgeting. Gifts were passed and opened: for the good daroga, a pair of gold-and-pearl cufflinks and a book of poetry; and for Erik, handkerchiefs and slippers, both of which he opened in stunned silence.

By the time Christine handed him his third and final gift, he looked as though he might die of incredulity. He picked apart the wrapping with skeletal fingers to reveal a songbook: _Cradle-Songs from Many Nations_.

"We had hoped you might play for our little one," said Christine.

The pages fluttered beneath his thumb. "These compositions are...quite rudimentary."

The Persian let out a deep laugh. "Erik would have the babe learning Mozart and Wagner before he cut teeth."

"It is just a guide, of course, and we welcome your improvements," said Christine. "There is a Swedish one, in particular, that my father and I would sing."

Frowning, Erik studied the page for Sweden. "Yes, I dare say this will need rearranging. Have you a pen?"

The daroga cleared his throat. "Perhaps that would be best saved for later," he said, "and not mid-celebration. And might I add, this evening has been an absolute pleasure. I only wish there were some way Erik and I could return the favor."

Christine cleared her throat. "Actually, there is something..." She looked to Raoul, who gave her a subtle nod, and she continued. "We wondered whether you might be the child's godfather."

The room went silent, save for the crackling of the hearth.

All eyes fell to Erik, who was staring down the Persian. "Well, daroga, answer the comtesse."

The Persian's eyes gleamed. "She asked _you_ , you great booby."

Erik's jaw slackened, and he turned, wide-eyed, to Christine, who smiled and nodded.

"I—" The word came out a voiceless rasp, and he cleared his throat. "I hardly know what that would entail."

"Well," said Raoul, hesitating, "in the strictest sense of the word, you would be a...a sort of guide for the child's soul, responsible for seeing his or her religious education to fruition, and invested in his or her general welf—"

Christine cut him off with a hand at his arm, having noted the growing panic on Erik's face. "What he means," she said, "is that you would be a source of support. A mentor, or...or an uncle. That is all we could ask for."

Erik sat rigid and unmoving in his chair, save for the thin lips that parted only to close again.

"Of course," she went on, "it would mean you must see us more often. Suppers, I expect, or perhaps walks in the park on Sundays. Music lessons, eventually."

His pale fingers tightened around the music book. His voice, when it emerged, was strained. "And is there no one else who can fulfill this role for you?"

Christine tried not to let her face fall. "If you do not wish to, we will not be offended."

"I said nothing of the sort, now, did I?" Erik's eyes had gone glassy, and he wiped at them hastily as he tensed against a quivering jaw. "If it pleases you, then, I would be...quite honored." He set down the songbook and took an enthusiastic swig of the sherry. "Now, please tell me that was the last of the gifts I do not deserve."

Raoul glanced sidelong at his wife. "Well, there is something—"

"—which has yet to arrive, I'm afraid," she interrupted. "Shipping delay. Quite unfortunate." Raoul raised an eyebrow; she hushed him with a look.

They sang carols after that, with Erik at the piano. Christine's voice soared above the rest, and when she looked to Erik, he regarded her much the same as her father had once, with a soft, familial warmth: a trace of restoration in a face ravaged by circumstance and time.

Later, when he and the Persian took their leave, she could not help but overhear their murmured conversation on the staircase. "Daroga. Do you suppose they are in need of a cradle? It occurs to me that I ought to build a cradle."

"No doubt they already have one. Besides, you are far from a master craftsman."

"Perhaps I shall build an extra, then, if only to spite you."

Once they had gone, Raoul pulled Christine into his arms. "You did not offer him the spare room," he observed.

"He was already so overwhelmed; I could not bring myself to do it. Besides, I would like to have the music room ready before we invite him to stay. Perhaps next week, when we see him at the new year?"

"Whatever you wish, my dear," he said, and he gave her a peck on the cheek. "Now, to bed with you! I shall fetch a glass of warm milk and meet you upstairs."

On her way out of the parlor, Christine glanced at the nativity scene once more and paused. It was obvious, now, what had bothered her most: how isolated Mary and Joseph were, the onlookers only there to witness from a distance. She nudged several of the figures forward, forming a cozy circle around the new family of three, and then she went to bed smiling.


End file.
